A Day In The Life of an Orange Menace
by Story Please
Summary: Crookshanks has but a few needs. Food, shelter, kindness from his Mistress, and a spot of adventure (on his own terms, of course). Come along with him and discover just what sort of mischief a half-Kneazle is liable to get up to. You might just see a hint of SS/HG if you squint a bit.


Author's Note:

Written for Career Advice Challenge for TGS

School: Ilvermorny

House: Horned Serpent

Words (excluding Author's Note): 892

Career #1: 1. Dog surfer [Oni, Story Please]

Congratulations! You are best suited to teach a canine to carve a wave and brave the deep blue!

Write a story that is based on or revolves around a magical pet or creature.

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A Day in the Life of an Orange Menace

Crookshanks isn't a picky creature, at least, not by his own standards. He wakes up at around seven thirty in the morning and demands his breakfast. Gone are the days where a kindly house elf would come with a plate of minced liver and (if he was lucky), a nasty little wingless pixie for him to stalk and play with before eating. The memory of their bones tastes sweet on his tongue. Luckily, his Mistress is clever enough to have finally charmed the can opener to open his can of cat food when he meows at it. Still, sometimes Crookshanks desires company for his meal and pounces on top of her overly-full bladder to wake her. It is a fun game, watching her try and fail to stay in bed. Sometimes, to change things up, he'll roll a ball with a bell inside into her room and plays with it incessantly until she finally gets up, her hair a mane of snarls around her face.

His belly full, Crookshanks decides it is time to go for his morning constitutional. He walks through his pet door and out into the garden, yawning and stretching as the bright spring sun warms his fur. He ducks into a bush to do his business, then springs onto the high garden wall with little effort. His kneazle ancestors may have had longer legs than he, but he knows how to use them.

He isn't hungry yet, but it does feel good to tear apart a few garden gnomes. The little buggers are not made of flesh and blood, like most living creatures, but are more of a foamy, mushroomy texture that is not at all pleasant. Still, the birds seem to have no problem with the taste, so Crookshanks leaves the aftermath of his attack to the songbirds that warily watch him from the trees above.

He pads over into the outskirts of the forest, his orange tail straight up with a slight curl in the tip. His full belly swings to and fro underneath him—Crookshanks is proud of it, for there was a long, dark time before his lovely Mistress took him in where it was painfully empty.

He travels along, finding the local centaur herd and solicits scratches under his chin. On sunny summer days, he sometimes lies out among the cool grass listening to the mares singing their weaving songs. At this time of year, however, the days are still short and the sunlight is still not hot enough to make him want to linger. He moves on and visits a throng of miniature nereids by the creek. They giggle and try to beckon him closer, but Crookshanks is clever enough to know the capriciousness of those that dwell in water. As he's walking back home, he finds himself in a sunny clearing, where tiny sprites flit over dandelions and send their seeds flying with the rapid beats of their wings.

He reaches the tiny graveyard with time to spare, rubbing himself and scent-marking the massive Church Grim that waits at the gate with burning eyes and obsidian fur. The Grim rumbles back in greeting while Crookshanks purrs. They play a game of tag amongst the gravestones; bright orange and shadowy black blurs as they race one another.

The sun begins to set, and Crookshanks finally bids his massive friend goodbye with a chirp and a twist of his tail. The Grim understands. Crookshanks bats at a few will-o-wisps on the way back, but knows not to stray from the path. Soon enough, his keen nose picks up the scent of catnip and juniper. He is close to home. The sound of his Mistress humming a tune from the kitchen window fills his mind with thoughts of a delicious supper. He hops through the open window, purring and chirping excitedly. As expected, she fawns over him and calls him by all manner of cutesy nicknames: "Crooksy" and "Shanker," and others that are even more embarrassing than those.

"Ah, there's that orange menace, and by that I mean that I am not referring to any of the Weasleys, thank Merlin," the Tall Man drawls.

Crookshanks jumps on his lap with his claws partially extended and then proceeds to shed all over the man's lap before jumping down with his tail and his nose in the air. That will teach him to address such a beautiful creature with such disrespect! As if on cue, the man lets out a few well-timed swear words.

He doesn't hate the Tall Man, for he is ten times better than any of the other so-called beaus his Mistress has brought home before, but his half-Kneazle pride makes it so that he refuses to be anything less than number one in his territory.

With a full belly and a bit of grooming, Crookshanks curls up and drowses by the fire as the stars rise outside the large picture window nearby. His Mistress cuddles on the couch with the Tall Man and they are whispering ardent words to one another, but Crookshanks could care less about the fickle feelings of human beings. All he knows is that his day has been filled with adventure, and he can't wait for morning to come.

'But first,' he thinks, 'I believe a nap is in order.'

He sleeps deeply, dreaming half-Kneazle dreams.


End file.
